Buying essentials

Dear diary,

I walk around to the rear of the tan 1980 Chevrolet Suburban, get down on the ground and place a C-4 plastic explosive under its frame, between the rear tires. Then I labor back onto my feet and walk toward the shopping mall. The doorman slides open the glass double French doors, and I greet him; then drape my arm around him. 

“What are you doing? Why are you so close to me?” sez the doorman.

“Here,” I hold out the detonation mechanism before him, while we both stand looking out at the lot where my vehicle is parked; “will you do the honors?”

“What’s this?” sez the doorman, looking at the mechanism.

“See that Chevrolet Suburban SUV — the tan one, parked in the front row there? That’s what I drove to get here. Just a moment ago, I rigged it with an explosive. So, if you’ll simply press this button on the detonation mechanism, I can be on my way. I’m planning on visiting the Magic Shop. I just came from the Silver Chain Shop; that’s where I got these thick necklaces.”

The doorman looks at me suspiciously; then he looks down at the button on the mechanism that I’m holding before him.

“Go ahead; it’s safe,” I say.

“OK,” he sez. Then he carefully reaches forth and presses the button with his finger. My tan Suburban explodes in a deafening fireball.

“Thanks!” I say. “I’m just gonna leave this right here,” I set the detonation mechanism down on the floor, by his feet. “You can either toss it in the trash, or keep it as a souvenir.” Then I add: “Could you tell me which way the Magic Shop is?”

The doorman stares at the mechanism for a moment; then he looks out into the parking lot, where, about fifteen meters away, what’s left of my ex-vehicle is ablaze. 

“Sir?” I say.

“Oh, sorry,” he snaps out of his state of wonder and raises his arm toward the interior of the mall, “just head straight toward the Food Court, but keep looking to your left — it’s between the Boom Box Shop and the Scented Mud Mask Salon, in that section of stores that are directly across from the Pizza Parlor.”

I make many signs in the air with my hands, as if I’m computing a math problem. “Got it! Thanks again!” I smile and begin to walk toward the Food Court.

When I’m almost too far away to hear the doorman anymore, the doorman shouts: “Hey! Mister!”

I turn around abruptly and shout: “Yes? I’m listening…”

The doorman cups his hands around his mouth and shouts: “I just wanted to thank YOU, sir, for all that you did today.”

I smile brightly, “No problem! Anytime!” Then I turn back around and continue to walk briskly to my destination.

When I see the Boom Box Shop on my left, I slow my pace; then, pretty soon, sure enough, the giant sign for the Magic Shop appears, and I enter the red drapes.

“Hello, welcome,” sez the clerk. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’d like to buy a top hat, a black cape, and…” I rub my chin, thinking hard, trying to remember the last item on my list, “oh — Do you sell rabbits?”

“Of course!” sez the clerk. “White rabbits with pink eyes?”

“They’re in season?”

“They’re actually on sale.”

“Gr-r-reat!” I say, clapping my hands together and rubbing them. “I’ll also take a wand, and some shiny black loafers, if you have them.”

“Ah, sorry; we’re all out of wands,” the clerk shrugs.

“Seriously?” I frown.

“No, I’m joking,” the clerk laughs (and I join in on this laughter, in great relief); “that’s the one thing that we make sure we never run out of — magic wands. We have a whole variety, with assorted degrees of spirit; and they all have a removable cap on the end, which shoots out colored neckerchiefs.”

“Are they all spring-loaded?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“And what type of spirit do they have?” I ask. “Is it good or evil?”

“They all come charged from the factory with the Holy Spirit. The same one that made the tongues of hellfire fall on the apostles.”

“Cool, so that means they’re ambidextrous, deifically speaking?” I say.

“Yes, you can set them to do any style of trix you like.”

“Ooh, awesome,” I say. “Then I’ll take whichever one is the most powerful.”

“OK, do you want me to start to bag this stuff?” sez the clerk, as he gathers up the articles that I specified, cradling them in his arms: first the hat, then the cape and the rabbit...

“Um, sure,” I say. “And do you have magic mirrors here — the kind that talk American and can tell the future?”

“Yes,” the clerk nods confidently while dumping his armsful of merchandise into a black Death Bag. Once his hands are free, he pulls a revolver from his holster and aims it at the back of the shop, saying: “They’re right… back… there”; then he squeezes the trigger and a bullet shatters the mirror that was hanging on the wall into a glittering shower of shards. “Oops,” he adds; “that one’s damaged — looks like seven years of back luck, for me, ha! — but the rest of them that you see hanging there are still intact and may be purchased. They’re five mill apiece.”

“Jeez! Five million caesars!?” I say. “Is that a lot?”

“That’s about average for a magic mirror,” sez the clerk. “You gotta remember, they’re 99% accurate.”

I look at the carpet while I’m trying to decide if it’s worth it to pay so much money for a novelty item. “Can you gift wrap it and send it to the ancient past — say, to Egypt — via the U.S. Postal Service? I’m asking for a friend.”

“No,” sez the clerk. Then he bursts into a smile and sez: “I’m kidding again: Yes, we can do that.”

We share a laugh. “Alright,” I say; “then gimme one of them mirrors, too.”

“Gift wrapped and sent to Egypt, right?” The clerk exclaims while walking to the back of the shop.

“Ancient Egypt,” I re-specify.

“Of course,” sez the clerk. “How about this one?” he places his hands on the frame of a magic mirror, preparing to take it down…

“No, no, gimme the one that’s two over — far on the left: the one that’s all dusty.”

“You have good taste,” sez the clerk.

“Thanks,” I say. “And can I start up a tab here, so that all this stuff can be purchased on credit? I don’t have any money.”

“What did you do? Spend your life savings on a 1980 Chrysler Suburban and then explode it in the parking lot before coming here?” the clerk sez.

“It depends,” I reply; “what color is the vehicle in question?”

“Tan,” he grins.

“Are you using the mirror?” I say. “That’s really remarkable.”

The clerk laughs. “These things are good fun, in times of trouble.” Then, after draping a big sheet of Christmas-themed wrapping-paper over the front of the mirror, taping it down by the corners, and slapping on a sticker with the preprinted text “To: Egypt”; then penciling in, over the top of that last word, “circa 1400 BC”; the clerk announces: “OK, you’re all set. And, yeah, we can put this stuff on your tab. I trust you, my son.”

“Thanks,” I say, receiving the Death Bag from the clerk at the Magic Shop. Then, while beginning to walk toward the front drapes, I gesture to the gift-wrapped mirror on the counter and say: “Do you think that you’ll be able to get that mailed by tomorrow?”

“It’ll go out this afternoon, for sure,” sez the clerk. “We got a guy who stops by every day, at twelve o’clock sharp. He brings two servings of spanakopita; we sit down for luncheon together and do our absinthe ritual; I give him the items that I want shipped; then we salute each other and say ‘See you tomorrow!’ — unless it’s Friday; then we say ‘Have a nice weekend!’”

I stop at the threshold of the Magic Shop, hold up my Death Bag while saluting, and proclaim: “Have a nice weekend!”

The clerk smiles widely: “You too, Bry!”